The fire crackled, and outside the thunder and lightning went out in a spectacular finale. The rain fell to a steady patter.
The pilot got up and said: “I’ll take a look at my crate, Inspector,” and went out.
And then the Boy Wonder mumbled: “Nonsense.”
“Did I say something wrong?” inquired Glücke innocently.
“Didn’t Jack and Blythe make up? You couldn’t want better proof than their reconciliation and marriage.”
“But how about these two?” said Glücke. There was another silence. “Hey?” said Glücke.
Bonnie stared straight at the lowest button of the Inspector’s jacket. And Ty turned his back to look at the fire.
“There’s no sense smearing it, Butch. We’ve hated each other’s guts since we were kids. We were brought up on hate. When a thing like that is fed to you morning, noon, and night from your nursery days it gets into your blood.”
“You feel the same way, huh, Miss Stuart?”
Bonnie licked her dry lips. “Yes.”
“But that doesn’t mean,” said Ty slowly, turning around, “that one of us committed those murders. Or do you think it does, Inspector Glücke?”
“But he couldn’t think a horrible thing like that!” cried Bonnie.
“How do I know,” said Glücke, “that story about the hold-up at the hangar in Griffith Park airport is on the level?”
“But we’ve got each other as witnesses!”
“Even if we didn’t,” growled Ty, “do you think I would poison my own father to revenge myself on Bonnie Stuart’s mother? Or that Bonnie Stuart would murder her own mother to get even with my father? You’re crazy.”
“I don’t know anything,” said the Inspector blandly, “about anything. You might be interested to learn that the Homicide Detail’s turned up the boy who brought Miss Stuart the message before the take-off. I got the news by radiophone while I was examining your plane on the plateau.”
“What’s he got to say for himself?”
“He says he was stopped near the hangar — he’s a page, or steward, or something, at the municipal field — by a tall thin man bundled up in flying clothes, wearing goggles.” The Inspector’s tone was amiable, but he kept glancing from Bonnie to Ty and back again. “This man held up a piece of paper with typewriting on it in front of the kid’s nose. The paper said for him to tell Miss Stuart Mr. Royle wanted her in the hangar.”
“The come-on,” muttered Ty. “That was the pilot, all right. What a clumsy trick!”
“Which worked nevertheless,” remarked Ellery. “You’re positive the boy’s on the level, Inspector?”
“The airport people give him a clean bill.”
“How about the typewritten note?”
“The kid never got his hands on it. It was just shown to him. Then the disguised pilot faded into the crowd, the kid says, taking the paper with him.”
Bonnie rose, looking incensed. “Then how can you believe one of us had a hand in those horrible crimes?”
“I’m not saying you had,” smiled Glücke. “I’m saying you could have had.”
“But if we were held up and tied!”
“Suppose one of you hired that tall fellow to fake the hold-up — to make you look innocent?”
“Oh, my God,” said Butch, throwing up his hands.
“You’re a fool,” said Ty curtly. He sat down on the settee and cupped his face in his hands.
Inspector Glücke smiled again and, going to his coat, fished in one of the pockets. He came back to the fire with a large manila envelope and slowly unwound the waxed red string.
“What’s that?” demanded Ellery.
Glücke’s big hand dipped into the envelope and came out with something round, thin, and blue. He held it up.
“Ever see one of these before?” he asked of no one in particular.
They crowded about him, Dr. Junius nosing with the rest. It was a blue chip, incised with a golden horseshoe.
“The Horseshoe Club,” exclaimed Bonnie and Ty together. In their eagerness they bumped against each other. For a moment they were pressed together; then they drew apart.
“Comes from Jack Royle’s pocket,” said the Inspector. “It’s not important.” Nevertheless, Ellery noted the careful manner in which he handled it, holding it between thumb and forefinger on the thin edge of the disc, as if he were afraid of smudging a possible fingerprint.
He dropped the plaque back into the envelope and pulled out something else — a sheaf of ragged pieces of paper held together by a paper-clip.
“This clip is mine,” he explained. “I found these torn scraps in Royle’s pocket, too.”
Ellery seized them. Separating the scraps, he spread them on the settee. It took only a few minutes to assemble the pieces. Reassembled, they constituted five small rectangles of linen memorandum paper, with the words: THE HORSESHOE CLUB, engraved in blue over a tiny golden horseshoe at the top of each sheet.
Each sheet bore a date; the dates covered roughly a period of a month, the last date being the second of the current month. In the same-colored ink, boldly scrawled, were the letters IOU, a figure preceded by a dollar-sign, and the signature John Royle. Each IOU noted a different sum. With a frown Ellery totaled them. They came to exactly $110,000.00.
“Know anything about these things?” asked the Inspector.
Ty studied them incredulously. He seemed baffled by the signature.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ellery quickly. “Isn’t that your father’s signature?”
“That’s just the trouble,” murmured Ty. “It is.”
“All five?”
“Yes.”
“What d’ye mean trouble?” demanded Glücke. “Didn’t you know about these debts?”
“No. At least I didn’t know dad had got in so deep with Alessandro. A hundred and ten thousand dollars!” He plunged his hands into his pockets and began to walk up and down. “He was always a reckless gambler, but this—”
“You mean to say he was that broke and his own son didn’t know it?”
“We rarely discussed money matters. I led my life and—” he sat slowly down on the settee, “he led his.”
He fell into a deep inspection of the fire. Glücke gathered the scraps together, clipped them, and in silence stowed them away in the manila envelope.
Some one coughed. Ellery turned around. It was Dr. Junius. He had quite forgotten Dr. Junius.
Dr. Junius said nervously: “The rain’s stopped, I think. You ought to be able to fly out safely now.”
“Oh, it’s you again, Doctor,” said the Inspector. “You are in a fret to get rid of us, aren’t you?”
“No, no,” said the doctor hastily. “I was just thinking of Miss Stuart. She must have a night’s rest.”
“And that reminds me.” Glücke looked at the staircase. “While I’m here I think I’ll have a talk with the old man.”
“Dr. Junius doesn’t think that would be wise,” said Ellery dryly. “Are you impervious to buckshot? Tolland Stuart keeps a shotgun by his bed.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” said Glücke. And he strode towards the staircase.
“Be careful, Inspector!” cried Junius, running after. “He doesn’t even know his daughter’s dead.”
“Go on,” said Glücke grimly. “That shy kind have a cute habit of listening at keyholes and at the top of stairs.”
He strode on. Ellery, remembering the fact of the old man in the downpour outside the house, silently applauded Glucke’s shrewdness. That livid old man had known the facts of death; there was no question about that.
He followed the two men up the stairs.