“Note that in the name ‘Edmund De Carlos’ we have every letter of the alphabet which occurs in the name ‘Cadmus Cole’ and which would be required in a reconstruction of the name ‘Cadmus Cole’! Even, observe, to the capital or initial — C. This makes it possible for us to perform an educational experiment.
“I’m going to take these two photostats of the check written out by Mr. De Carlos, which contains his full signature in his own handwriting, and cut up the De Carlos signature into its components.
“Then I shall rearrange these and paste them down on another sheet of paper, in such an order that they will spell out the name ‘Cadmus Cole.’ In this way we’ll have the name ‘Cadmus Cole’ written in Edmund De Carlos’s handwriting.”
With scissors and pastepot Mr. Queen went to work.
When he was finished he observed: “We are now in a position to cap our little climax. Here is Cadmus Cole’s authentic signature, taken from the cancelled check-voucher:
Here is Edmund De Carlos’s authentic signature, taken from the original check he wrote out to the order of Ellery Queen, Inc.:
And here is a manufactured ‘Cadmus Cole’ signature — synthesized from two photostats of Edmund De Carlos’s signature:
Compare all three, please.”
And while they were examining his three exhibits, Mr. Queen added: “As a matter of fact, while this little demonstration piques, in a sense it was unnecessary. You had merely to compare De Carlos’s signature on the Cole will — as witness — with Cole’s signature — as testator — to see that they were written by the same hand. I’ve never seen the will before tonight, but I’m surprised you didn’t notice the similarity, Mr. Goossens.”
“I’m surprised myself,” muttered Goossens, staring at the exhibits. “And I imagine the Surrogate will be, too!”
The Inspector straightened up. “That’s enough for me. You’re Cole, Mister, and there’s no question about that.”
District Attorney Sampson looked uneasy. “It certainly appears that way.”
“Why did you pretend to be dead?” demanded the Inspector of the silent man in the chair. “What happened to the real De Carlos? What’s behind this masquerade, Cole? With the murder of Margo Cole’s impostor hanging over your head, you’ve got some mighty tall explaining to do!”
The man in the chair looked about wildly. “But I’m not Cole!” he cried in his mumbly voice. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
He thrust his false teeth back into his mouth and clapped his glasses on his eyes; and this seemed to give him new strength, for he bounded from the chair and began to dance up and down. “I’m Edmund De Carlos! Why, there’s one man that’s known me for years and years — he could prove in a second who I am, because he knew Cole well, too!”
“And who might that be?” asked Beau with friendliness.
“Angus, Captain of Cole’s yacht Argonaut! Just give me a little time, Inspector, a little time to locate Captain Angus! He’ll tell you who I am! He’ll—”
“What would you say,” asked Beau jovially, “if I told you that your Captain Angus is in the next room, waiting to identify you as Cole?”
The sunburnt man’s mouth fell open.
“We’ve been looking for him,” continued Beau crisply, “ever since you had yourself reported dead, Cole. One of our operatives finally located him. He’d retired from active service after you docked at Santiago de Cuba and, having no dependents, he decided to take a busman’s holiday. He’s been on a round-the-world cruise as a passenger. His ship docked in Frisco yesterday, my operative flew him here and—” said Beau as Ellery opened the reception-room door and beckoned — “here he is!”
A tall lean man, wearing a gray suit and carrying a topcoat and a fedora hat, marched in between the San Francisco detective and Sergeant Velie.
Captain Angus was blackened from years of exposure to the ocean sun. His eyes under heavy black brows were a frosty blue-green, the color of icebergs just below the water-line; and he carried himself with an imperious assurance, as if he were accustomed to command and receive obedience.
He paused just inside the office and looked about.
“Captain Angus?” said Beau cheerfully, stepping forward. “I’m Rummell; this is Ellery Queen, my partner; and those two worried-looking gentlemen over there are Inspector Queen of the Homicide Squad and District Attorney Sampson of New York County.”
The tall man nodded. “Quite a party,” he observed dryly, in a resonant bass voice. “Is this all for me, Mr. Rummell?”
“Captain Angus, I want to ask you just one question.” Beau stepped aside and pointed at the medium-sized, sunburnt, bald-headed man in the center of the room. “Who is that man?”
Captain Angus looked puzzled. He glanced from the bald man to the others and then back to the bald man. “I don’t understand. Who should he be?”
“That’s what we’re asking you, Captain.”
The Captain grinned and said: “Why, that’s Mr. De Carlos. Mr. Edmund De Carlos.”
Beau choked, swallowed, spluttered. Then he cried: “De Carlos? Look again! Isn’t he Cadmus Cole?”
“Mr. Cole?” Captain Angus threw back his head and guffawed. “I should say not! Mr. Cole is dead.”
“Mr. Cole — is — dead?” repeated Mr. Ellery Queen, seeming to find difficulty with the English language.
“Of course! He died aboard the Argonaut three months ago. I fixed the shroud around his body with my own hands, sir — old-fashioned canvas, all shipshape, the way we used to do it in sail.”
Beau roared: “It’s a plant, a frame-up! He’s been bribed to say that! You’d better tie the can on him, too, pop!”
“Just a moment.” The tall man lost his geniality, and his tone of voice brought about a sudden silence. “Do I understand you to say I’m mixed up in something crooked, Mister?”
“You heard me,” snarled Beau.
“Well, you’re a loud-sounding pup,” said the Captain softly, “and I’d like nothing better than to thrash you for that, but the fact is I can prove my statement, because I know where at least five members of the crew are, and they’ll bear me out to a man. There wasn’t anything funny about Mr. Cole’s death — he died just as I reported it by radio to White Lady.”
“Give it to him properly, Captain,” said De Carlos in a vicious tone.
“Besides, this gentleman couldn’t be Mr. Cole. Mr. Cole was a little taller than Mr. De Carlos, thinner, and his eyes were of a different color. Mr. De Carlos is nearsighted, has to wear glasses all the time; Mr. Cole had the best eyesight I ever knew a man of his age to have — right down to the end; never wore glasses in his life. He was completely bald; Mr. De Carlos has a fringe. He didn’t have teeth, that’s true, just as Mr. De Carlos hasn’t; but then Mr. Cole never wore a plate — the inside of his mouth was sensitive, he used to say; couldn’t stand the feeling of a plate at all. He was a vegetarian, anyway, and didn’t need false teeth.”
In the corner, forgotten, sat Kerrie; and over her face came an expression of hopelessness.
“And that isn’t all,” continued the Captain, with a quiet satisfaction at the sight of Beau’s consternation. “Mr. Cole had severe arthritis in both hands — arthritis deformans, I think it’s called. Had it long as I knew him. He once told me he’d got it all of a sudden ’way back in ’19 or ’20, I don’t remember which. Why, his hands were so badly crippled they hardly looked human! All knotted up and discolored. You’d spot ’em in a second. But look at Mr. De Carlos’s hands; they’re normal in shape and color. Mr. Cole couldn’t so much as hold up a pair o’ telescopic glasses with either hand. He couldn’t even eat by himself, because he couldn’t hold a knife or fork. The steward’s assistant had to feed him, like a baby.”