Ellery and Glücke sprang forward as one man. Then they straightened up without having touched him. For in his slack hand there lay a tiny vial, and he was dead.
And Dr. Junius turned from the wall and collapsed in a chair, whimpering like a child.
Chapter 23
End of the Beginning
When Ellery turned the key in his apartment door Sunday night, and let himself in, and shut the door, and flung aside his hat and coat, and sank into his deepest chair, it was with a spent feeling. His bones ached, and so did his head. It was a relief just to sit there in the quiet living-room thinking of nothing at all.
He always felt this way at the conclusion of a case — tired, sluggish, his vital energies sapped.
Inspector Glücke had been gruff with praises again; and there had been invitations, and thanks, and a warm kiss on the lips from Bonnie, and a silent handshake from Ty. But he had fled to be alone.
He closed his eyes.
To be alone?
That wasn’t quite true. Damn, analyzing again! But this time his mind dwelt on a more pleasant subject than murder. Just what was his feeling for Paula Paris? Was he sorry for her because she was psychologically frustrated, because she shut herself up in those sequestered rooms of hers and denied the world the excitement of her company? Pity? No, not pity, really. To be truthful about it, he rather enjoyed the feeling when he went to see her that they were alone, that the world was shut out. Why was that?
He groaned, his head beginning to throb where it had only ached dully before. He was mooning like an adolescent boy. Tormenting himself this way! Why think? What was the good of thinking? The really happy people didn’t have a thought in their heads. That’s why they were happy.
He rose with a sigh and stripped off his jacket; and as he did so his wallet fell out. He stooped to pick it up and suddenly recalled what was in it. That envelope. Queer how he had forgotten it in the excitement of the last twenty-four hours!
He took the envelope out of the wallet, fingering its creamy vellum face with appreciation. Good quality. Quality, that was it. She represented a special, unique assortment of human values, the tender and shy and lovable ones, the ones that appealed mutely to the best in a man.
He smiled as he tore the envelope open. Had she really guessed who had murdered Jack Royle and Blythe Stuart?
In her free, clear script was written: “Dear Stupid: It’s inconceivable to you that a mere woman could do by intuition what it’s taken you Siegfriedian writhings of the intellect to achieve. Of course it’s Lew Bascom. Paula.”
Damn her clever eyes! he thought angrily. She needn’t have been so brash about it. He seized the telephone.
“Paula. This is Ellery. I’ve just read your note—”
“Mr. Queen,” murmured Paula. “Back from the wars. I suppose I should offer you the congratulations owing to the victor?”
“Oh, that. We were lucky it all went off so well. But Paula, about this note—”
“It’s hardly necessary for me to open your envelope now.”
“But I’ve opened yours, and I must say you made an excellent stab in the dark. But how—”
“You might also,” said Paula’s organ voice, “congratulate me for having made it.”
“Well, of course. Congratulations. But that’s not the point. Guessing! That’s the point. Where does it get you? Nowhere.”
“Aren’t you being incoherent?” Paula laughed. “It gets you the answer. Nor is it entirely a matter of guesswork, O Omniscience. There was reason behind it.”
“Reason? Oh, come now.”
“It’s true. I didn’t understand why Lew did it — his motives and things; the murder of Jack didn’t fit in... you’ll have to explain those things to me—”
“But you just said,” growled Ellery, “you had a reason.”
“A feminine sort of reason.” Paula paused. “But do we have to discuss it over the phone?”
“Tell me!”
“Yes, sir. You see, I did know the kind of person Lew was, and it struck me that Lew’s character exactly matched the character of the crime.”
“What? What’s that?”
“Well, Lew was an idea man, wasn’t he? He conceived brilliantly, executed poorly — that was characteristic not only of him but of his work, too.”
“What of it?”
“But the whole crime, if you stop to think of it, as I did, was exactly like that — brilliantly conceived and poorly executed!”
“You mean to say,” spluttered Ellery, “that that sort of dishwater is what you call reasoning?”
“Oh, but it’s so true. Have you stopped,” said Paula sweetly, “to think it out? The playing-card scheme was very, very clever — a true Lew Bascom idea; but it was also fantastic and devious, and wasn’t it carried out shoddily? Lew all over. Then the frame-up of Jack, followed by the frame-up of Ty... two frame-ups that didn’t jibe at all. And that clumsy device of filing those typewriter keys! Poor execution.”
“Lord,” groaned Ellery.
“Oh, dozens of indications. That hamper with the bottles of cocktails. Suppose it hadn’t been delivered? Suppose, if it were delivered in that crush, it weren’t taken along? Or suppose Jack and Blythe were too wrapped up in each other, even if it were taken along, to bother about a drink? Or suppose only one of them drank? So awfully chancy, Ellery; so poorly thought out. Now Jacques Butcher, had he been the criminal, would never—”
“All right, all right,” said Ellery. “I’m convinced — yes, I’m not. You saw a clever idea with fantastic overtones and poor craftsmanship, and because Lew was that way you said it was Lew. I’ll have to recommend the method to Glücke; he’ll be delighted. Now, Miss Paris, how about paying off that bet of ours?”
“The bet,” said Paula damply.
“Yes, the bet! You said I’d never catch the criminal. Well, I have caught him, so I’ve won, and you’ve got to take me out tonight to the Horseshoe Club.”
“Oh!” And Paula fell silent. He could sense her panic over the wires. “But... but that wasn’t the bet,” she said at last in a desperate voice. “The bet was that you’d bring him to justice, into court. You didn’t. He committed suicide, he tried to escape and his parachute didn’t open—”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” said Ellery firmly. “You don’t welch on me, Miss Paris. You lost that bet, and you’re going to pay off.”
“But Ellery,” she wailed, “I can’t! I... I haven’t set foot outside my house for years and years! You don’t know how the very thought of it makes me shrivel up inside—”
“You’re taking me to the Club tonight.”
“I think... I’d faint, or something. I know it sounds silly to a normal person,” she cried, “but why can’t people understand? They’d understand if I had measles. It’s something in me that’s sick, only it doesn’t happen to be organic. This fear of people—”
“Get dressed.”
“But I’ve got nothing to wear,” she said triumphantly. “I mean, no evening gowns. I’ve never had occasion to wear them. Or even — I’ve no wrap, no — no nothing.”
“I’m dressing now. I’ll be at your house at eight-thirty.”
“Ellery, no!”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Please! Oh, please, Ellery—”
“Eight-thirty,” repeated Mr. Queen inflexibly, and he hung up.
At eight-thirty precisely Mr. Queen presented himself at the front door of the charming white house in the Hills, and a pretty young girl opened the door for him. Mr. Queen saw, with some trepidation, that the young lady was star-eyed and pink-cheeked with excitement. She was one of Paula’s elfin secretaries, and she regarded his lean, tuxedo-clad figure with a keenness that made him think of a mother inspecting her daughter’s first swain come a-calling.