“She no longer needed a partner — any partner; he had served his purpose by giving her the Margo-Cole proofs of identity. She could back down on her bargain with this partner without danger to herself — that is, she could refuse to share the profits with the partner who supplied her with the means of making those profits. And what could this partner do about it? — nothing. To expose the woman as an impostor meant exposing and incriminating himself.
“So the partner lost his share of the loot without a comeback. Natural motive on his part? Revenge.
“Second motive: Fear. Ann Bloomer, a woman with a police record, might be unmasked as an impostor at any time, through the merest mischance. If caught, she would certainly involve her silent and invisible partner. As a matter of fact, when Ann boasted to Kerrie in the hotel room that she and somebody else had planned the murderous attacks, and actually stated: ‘I and somebody else. I and—’... the partner shot her dead instantly. He couldn’t afford to have her reveal his identity. Dead men don’t bite. Nor, for that matter, do dead women.”
Ellery paused, and Beau said: “You said there were three motives. What’s the third?”
“That,” replied Mr. Queen, “can wait. Aren’t two sufficient?”
“Why couldn’t Kerrie have been the Bloomer woman’s partner?” demanded the Inspector. “Forgetting all this business of Room 1726 and Kerrie’s story.”
“Come, come, dad, you’re confused. Kerrie’s the last person on earth who could have been Ann’s partner-in-crime. If Kerrie originally possessed the proofs of Margo Cole’s identity — a vast improbability by itself — whether the real Margo Cole were alive or dead, would Kerrie have engineered the imposture and thereby set up a competing heiress? For if the real Margo didn’t come forward, Kerrie would have had the income from the entire estate, not half. No, dad, Kerrie didn’t need a partner.”
Inspector Queen nibbled the end of his mustache. “Where’s the proof of all this?”
“We’re not ready to submit proof.”
“The circumstantial case against the girl is too strong, Ellery. Even if I were convinced, there’s Sampson. The D.A. simply can’t drop these charges without proof.”
Beau winked at Ellery and took him aside. They conferred sotto voce for some time.
Ellery looked worried. But he finally nodded and said to his father: “All right. You’ll have your proof. I’m going to let Beau run this show, because it’s fundamentally his inspiration.”
“Let me handle this,” said Beau eagerly, “and you’ll have your killer in twenty-four hours — yes, and a whole lot more besides!”
“It shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours,” agreed Mr. Queen. “Yes, I think we can promise that.”
The Inspector hesitated. Then he threw up his hands. “All right. What do you want me to do?”
XIX. The Cadmean Illusion
At nine o’clock that night the main office of Ellery Queen, Inc. was crowded. The shades had been drawn and all the lights were on. On the desk stood some apparatus. A Headquarters expert sat near the apparatus, looking puzzled.
Kerrie was there in charge of a detective and a matron. She and Violet Day sat in a corner. Vi was nervous. Every few moments Kerrie had to lean over and reassure her. At other times Kerrie kept her eyes on Beau with a faith patient, secret, and maternal.
Inspector Queen was there, looking worried; District Attorney Sampson, looking skeptical; Edmund De Carlos, looking the worse for drink; Goossens, representing the estate and looking unhappy. A stranger with a kit waited in Beau’s laboratory-darkroom.
Beau was jumpy. Mr. Queen took him aside. “You’re skittering. Look confident, you big ape. You’re acting more like an expectant father than anything else of a human nature.”
“It’s the look in Kerrie’s eye,” groaned Beau: “You suppose it’s going to turn out okay? You’re sure you got that message straight?”
“Captain Angus and the Coast operative landed at Newark Airport all right, I tell you,” said Ellery impatiently. “They’re coming here under police escort and all the trimmings. Get going, will you?”
“I’m all atwitter,” said Beau with a feeble grin.
“And you show it! The whole secret of this business is to act Jovian. You’re Messiah. You know it all. A temblor couldn’t shake your confidence. Go ahead!”
Beau breathed hard. He stepped forward, and Mr. Queen retired to lean against the door to the reception room.
Beau described in rapid detail the circumstances of Cadmus Cole’s visit to that very office three months before, of how the multimillionaire had engaged Ellery’s services in an investigation which “turned out to be the search for Cole’s heirs after he should die.” He described Cole — his baldness, his clean-shaven, sunburnt cheeks, his toothless mouth, the way he had bumped into the door-jamb, the way he had squinted: “He seemed, both to Mr. Queen and myself, very nearsighted.”
Beau went on to relate how Cole had left his fountain-pen behind — the pen with which he had sat at that very desk and written out a check for fifteen thousand dollars.
“We sent the pen back to his yacht, Argonaut,” said Beau, “but before doing so, we took microphotographs of some very unusual markings towards the end of the cap.” He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the Headquarters expert seated by the apparatus at the desk. “Dr. Jolliffe, here are those microphotographs. Will you examine them?”
The expert accepted the envelope. “Of course, I’ve only your word for it — whatever your purpose is, Mr. Rummell — that these photographs are of that pen.”
“We can do better than that,” put in Mr. Queen suddenly.
“We certainly can,” drawled Beau. “We can produce the pen itself!”
And he stepped before Edmund De Carlos, whipped back the man’s coat, plucked a fountain-pen from his vest-pocket — the pen which De Carlos had employed to write out the check for twenty-five thousand dollars and tendered Ellery Queen, Inc. as a bribe — and handed the fat black gold-trimmed pen to the expert with an air of triumph.
De Carlos was startled. “I don’t see—”
“Dr. Jolliffe,” said Beau, “will you please examine this pen under the ’scope and compare its markings with those on the microphotographs?”
The expert went to work. When he looked up he said: “The markings on this pen and the markings on these photographs are identical.”
“Then you’d say the microphotographs,” demanded Beau, “are of this pen?”
“Unquestionably.”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Rummell,” remarked the District Attorney, “that I don’t get the point.”
“You will, Oscar,” said Beau grimly. “Just bear in mind that this man De Carlos had in his possession, when he entered this office tonight, a fountain-pen which was in the possession of Cadmus Cole three months ago.”
District Attorney Sampson looked bewildered. “I still—”
Beau stood squarely before De Carlos. “What did you say your name was?”
De Carlos stared at him. “Why — Edmund De Carlos, of course. Of all the ridiculous questions—”
“You’re a cock-eyed liar,” said Beau. “Your name is Cadmus Cole!”
The bearded man leaped to his feet. “You’re insane!”