“I say,” he said quickly, almost stammering. “You know—”
“Sherlock?” said the Inspector, smiling. “That’s an odd name, Dr. Holmes... Oh, I see!”
“Of course,” said Miss Forrest, dimpling. She clung to the young physician’s arm to his evident embarrassment. “Sherlock Holmes. That’s what I call him. Real name is Percival, or some such dismal thing... He’s a Sherlock at that; aren’t you, darling? Always messing about with microscopes and nasty liquids and things.”
“Now, Miss Forrest,” began Dr. Holmes, scarlet.
“And he’s English, too,” said Dr. Xavier with a fond glance at the young man, “which makes the name astonishingly appropriate, Miss Forrest. But you’re an impertinent baggage. Percival’s very sensitive, like most Britons, you know; you’re really embarrassing him.”
“No, no,” said Dr. Holmes, whose conversational capacity seemed limited. He said it very quickly, however.
“Oh, lord!” wailed Miss Forrest, throwing her arms about as she flung the young man’s aside. “Nobody loves me,” and she went to join silent Mark Xavier at the window.
“Very pretty,” thought Ellery grimly. “This crowd ought to go on the stage, en masse.” Aloud he said with a smile, “You’d rather not be named after Holmes of Baker Street, Dr. Holmes? In some circles it would be considered rather an accolade.”
“Can’t abide shockers,” said Dr. Holmes briefly, and sat down.
“There,” chuckled Dr. Xavier, “Percival and I part. I’m fatuously fond of them.”
“Trouble is,” said Dr. Holmes unexpectedly, with a furtive glance at the smooth back of Miss Forrest, “their atrocious medical stuff. Sheer bilge, you know. You’d think the blighters would take the trouble to get accurate medical information. And then when they put English characters into their stories — the American ones, I mean, do you see — they make ’em talk like... like...”
“You’re a living paradox Doctor,” said Ellery with a twinkle. “I thought no Englishman breathes who uses the word ‘blighter.’ ”
Even Mrs. Xavier permitted herself to smile at that.
“You’re too captious, my boy,” went on Dr. Xavier. “Read a story once in which murder was committed by injecting the victim with air from an empty hypodermic. Coronary-explosion sort of thing. Well, the fact is, as you know, death won’t occur from that cause once in a hundred times. Didn’t bother me though.”
Dr. Holmes grunted; Miss Forrest was deep in conversation with Mark Xavier.
“Refreshing to meet a tolerant medico,” grinned Ellery, recalling some vitriolic letters he had had from physicians because of alleged errors of fact in his own novels. “You read for entertainment purely? I should deduce, seeing this wealth of games, Doctor, that you’re the puzzle type of fan. Like to figure them out, eh?”
“It’s my one abiding passion much, I fear, to the disgust of Mrs. Xavier, whose own taste runs to French novels. Cigar, Mr. Queen?” Mrs. Xavier half smiled again — a dreadful smile; and Dr. Xavier surveyed his game tables imperturbably. “As a matter of fact, I’ve an abnormally developed game sense, as you’ve noted. All sort of games. I find I need that sort of thing as sheer diversion from the physical strain of surgery... I did find, I mean to say,” he added with an odd change of tone. A shade passed over his pleasant face. “It’s been some time since I have presided in an operating theater. Retired, you know... Now it’s a habit, and it’s excellent relaxation. I’m still fussing about with my laboratory.” He flicked ashes from his cigar, bending forward to do so; and as he bent forward his eyes searched his wife’s face for an instant. Mrs. Xavier was sitting with the same vague smile on her extraordinary face, nodding at every word. But she was frigid and remote as Arcturus. A frigid woman who was volcanic beneath! Ellery studied her without seeming to do so.
“By the way,” said the Inspector suddenly, crossing his legs, “we met a guest of yours on our way up.”
“Guest of ours?” Dr. Xavier seemed puzzled; the fair skin of his forehead wrinkled inquiringly. Mrs. Xavier’s body stirred; the movement reminded Ellery of the squirming of an octopus. Then she became as still as before. The low voices of Mark Xavier and Ann Forrest at the window ceased abruptly. Dr. Holmes alone seemed unaffected; he was staring rebelliously at the cuff of his linen trousers, his thoughts apparently eons away.
“Why, yes,” murmured Ellery, alert. “Bumped into the chap during our flight from that private Hades of ours below. He was driving a rather ancient Buick sedan.”
“But we haven’t—” began Dr. Xavier slowly, and stopped. His sunken eyes narrowed. “That’s rather odd, do you know?”
The Queens looked at each other. What now?
“Odd?” said the Inspector mildly. He refused his host’s mechanical offer of a cigar and, taking a worn brown box from his pocket, sniffed a pinch of its contents. “Snuff,” he said apologetically. “Dirty habit... Odd, Doctor?”
“Quite. What sort of man was he?”
“Very stout, from what I saw of him,” said Ellery quickly. “Froggy eyes. Voice like a bassoon. Tremendous breadth of shoulder. About fifty-five, at a rough guess.”
Mrs. Xavier stirred again.
“But we’ve had no visitor at all, you know,” said the surgeon quietly.
The Queens were astonished. “Then he didn’t come from here?” muttered Ellery. “But I thought no one else lives on this mountain!”
“We’re quite sequestered up here, I assure you. Sarah, my dear, you don’t know of anyone—?”
Mrs. Xavier licked her full lips. A struggle seemed to be raging within her. There was speculation, bafflement, and subtle cruelty in her black eyes. Then she said in a surprised voice: “No.”
“That’s funny,” murmured the Inspector. “He was headed lickety-cut down the mountain, and if there’s only one road and this is at the end of it and nobody else lives here...”
There was a crash from behind. They turned quickly. But it was only Miss Forrest, who had dropped her compact. She straightened up, her cheeks fiery, eyes so strangely bright, and said gaily: “Oh, shoot! The next thing we know we’ll all be babbling of bogies. If you people insist on introducing unpleasant subjects, you know, I’ll be just as unpleasant. What with men prowling about and all, somebody will have to tuck me into bed tonight. You see—”
“What do you mean, Miss Forrest?” said Dr. Xavier slowly. “Is there anything—?”
The Queens crossed glances again. These people were not only concealing a common secret, but they possessed little private secrets as well.
The girl tossed her head. “I wasn’t going to mention it,” she said, shrugging, “because it was really nothing and... and...” It was evident that she already regretted having begun. “Oh, let’s forget all about it and play ducks and drakes, or something.”
Mark Xavier came forward with short, quick steps. There was a brutal gleam in his sharp eyes and his mouth was hard. “Come on, Miss Forrest,” he said gruffly. “Something’s bothering you and we might as well know what. If there’s a man skulking about the place...”
“Of course,” said the girl quietly, “that’s what it is. Very well, if you insist; but I apologize in advance. No doubt that’s the explanation... Last week I... I lost something.”
It seemed to Ellery that Dr. Xavier, more than any of them, was startled. Then Dr. Holmes rose and went to a small round table, groping for a cigarette.
“Lost something?” asked Dr. Xavier in a thick voice.
The room was incredibly quiet; so quiet that Ellery could hear the suddenly labored breathing of their host. “I missed it one morning,” said Miss Forrest in a low voice; “I think it was Friday of last week. I thought I might have mislaid it. I looked and looked all over but I couldn’t find it, you see. Perhaps I did lose it. Yes, I’m sure I lost it.” She stopped in confusion.