“The war-of-nerves technique,” Merlini said. “The person who’s tried so hard to kill Smith is apparently scared pink at having him above ground. If there’s no news of any traffic smash, if he thinks attempt number three has failed too, if he thinks Smith is still all in one piece and able to talk, he’s not going to rest easy in his mind. I like my undiscovered murderers scared when possible. They’re more likely to make missteps.”
Flint thought it over. He looked at me. “Harte knows,” he said.
“Yes, but he didn’t shoot Wolff.”
“Okay, maybe not, but that means Smith did. And how do you get Smith and the gun out of that study after the shooting if you both keep insisting that—”
“Smith?” Merlini said. “Oh, I know how he got out. Come on.” He moved quickly past Flint and vanished through the door.
The lieutenant said a few things that seldom see print, and added, “Lovejoy, you heard him. Do what he said. Don’t let the others hear about the accident.” Then he too was gone. The door slammed behind him.
I looked at the sergeant. “Hold your hat,” I said. “The sleight of hand has begun to commence.” I started out too.
Lovejoy stepped in front of me. “But you’re not doing any of it. Sit down.”
“Look,” I protested, “you heard Flint admit I didn’t shoot Wolff.”
“I heard him tell me to see that you stayed put. You’re not leaving this room. Tucker, put a man on both these doors, find out where everybody else is, and make sure the boys outside aren’t asleep.”
Tucker nodded and went out. Lovejoy gathered up the two guns and followed.
I sat down and thought. There wasn’t much else I could do, not unless I could dope out how Smith had escaped from the study. I could use that. I tried to remember everything I’d ever heard Merlini let drop on the subject of escapes. I couldn’t think of a single method that would apply to this case. Even Houdini used to work in a cabinet so that the audience couldn’t see how the trick was done. But an audience didn’t seem to cramp Smith’s style. I was watching the window and Merlini the door. Yet he escaped as neatly as Houdini had ever done and without either of us catching the faintest glimpse of him as he went.
I gave that up and did some thinking about Merlini’s suspicion that the traffic accident was not everything it was cracked up to be. If he was right, it meant that Smith was not the only one who knew a thing or two about the fancier grades of hocus-pocus. But that was damn little help. Almost everyone in sight did.
Galt was an authority on mediumistic trickery. Mrs. Wolff had been a medium. Dunning, who probably wrote up the reports of Wolff’s psychic investigations, would know plenty. Phillips, Kay had said, was a detective-story fan; there was no telling what peculiar murder methods he’d know about. Doctor Haggard was an expert on death and its causes; ditto for him. Leonard was a question mark until Flint’s check on his background came in. I looked at the collection of books and periodicals concerning spiritualism that filled the library shelves. Even Kay — but she was out. I knew that.
I got out pencil and paper and tried listing alibis. That didn’t help at all. Anyone could have failed to dig Smith up. The cute part about killing someone off by not doing something was that it made the whole subject of alibis meaningless. And anyone, except possibly Doctor Haggard, could have set the trap gun in the study during the hour between the time it was last seen in the gun room and the time Merlini and I had arrived. As for the traffic accident, there was no point in speculating about that until we knew what had caused it.
I crumpled my notes, threw the paper in the wastebasket, got up, and went to the door. Kathryn knew all these people much better than I did. Perhaps, if I gave her a late news bulletin covering the events of the last hour, she might suggest a lead.
I discovered Ryan standing guard just outside. “Where,” he asked, “do you think you’re going?”
Sergeant Lovejoy had certainly taken his orders literally. I looked at Ryan for a moment without answering, then I remembered one escape method which, although it wasn’t one Smith could have used, might be useful.
“You’d be surprised,” I said. “I’ve just figured out how those vanishing acts were done. I’m going to try it. I’ll send you a post card.” I slammed the door quickly, rattled the key in the lock without turning it, and then flattened against the wall at one side.
It worked. When Ryan, thinking the door was locked, threw himself against it, he catapulted into the room and took a beautiful nose dive. I was halfway up the stairs before he had finished picking himself up. I turned left at the top, ducked quickly into Kay’s room, and closed the door gently behind me. She sat by the window on a chaise longue with a breakfast tray across her lap.
“You might knock,” she said. “What—”
“Quiet!” I warned. “The gendarmes and I are having a game of hide-and-seek. The sergeant takes his orders too literally, and I wanted to see you.”
The commotion in the hall outside was frantic. I swiped a piece of Kay’s toast and dropped on the floor behind the bed just as someone banged on the door.
“Miss Wolff!” It was Lovejoy’s voice. He sounded angry.
“If it’s subscriptions he’s selling,” I whispered, “you don’t want any.”
Kay said, “Come in.”
The door opened. “You see anything of Mr. Harte?” the sergeant asked.
“No,” Kay answered truthfully enough. “I don’t. Have you lost him?”
Lovejoy, having had his look around, didn’t answer. The door slammed.
I came out of hiding. “Can you spare a hungry man a cup of coffee? I’d almost forgotten there were such things as meals.”
She poured me a cup. “There’s bacon and eggs too, that is if you talk. You act as though you didn’t have a care in the world. But Sergeant Lovejoy doesn’t. What’s happened? Why—”
“He’s just obeying orders. Flint’s still pretending he suspects me, but I think it’s just a gag to keep me from talking to editors. Wolff’s murder is solved and I’ve got an alibi for—”
“Solved?”
“Yes.” I gave her the whole story — all of it, including the traffic accident. “The thumbtack holes and the bullet in the wall,” I finished, “place the trap gun in the study. The powder burn on Smith’s face and the fact that he had both the trap gun and the murder gun when he smashed up proves that he was there. All we need to know is how he does his disappearing acts. And Merlini says he knows that. Smith is the murderer.”
Kay frowned. “But Ross, if someone has been trying to kill him, if Merlini’s right about the accident, then — then there are two murderers. The very moment you decide that A is the murderer, you discover that he has been killed by B. I don’t like it.”
“I know. Neither do I. It’s a pretty high percentage of lethal-minded persons to show up in such a damned small handful of suspects. But one murderer won’t do. If the person who’s been trying to get Smith’s scalp also shot Wolff, that would put two vanishing experts in the study. I’ll swallow one, but not—”
I stopped. Somewhere in my head an idea had stirred. Something clicked into place with something else. I concentrated, trying to hang onto it.
Kay was saying, “But if Merlini knows how Smith could have got out, someone else could have gone the same — Ross, what’s wrong?”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t listening. She could have confessed to murder and I wouldn’t have paid any attention. My idea had suddenly risen and burst like a giant skyrocket.
“I’ll — be — damned! Kay! There is only one murderer and I know—” I stopped again, thinking furiously, trying to sort out the flood of possibilities that poured down upon me. I didn’t hear the door behind us open.
“You know who?” Kay was so excited she stood up, completely forgetting the breakfast tray that was across her lap. Its contents fell across the floor.