He was gone a long time. The living room was very quiet. From the rear came the cheerful shouts of Julian and Francis, apparently applying themselves to the cream of Mrs. Wheary’s larder with gusto and enthusiasm.
Once there was a heavy step in the hall and they all turned to the door. But it remained shut, and the step continued to tramp toward the foyer. A moment later they spied the gorillalike figure of Mr. Smith on the terrace; he was staring out over the bleak rocky ground before the house.
Ellery sulked in a corner and sucked a fingernail. For some reason too nebulous to grasp he felt disturbed. What on earth was his father up to?
Then the door opened and the Inspector appeared. His eyes were sparkling. In his hand he held a legal-looking paper.
“Well,” he said benevolently, closing the door. Ellery studied him, frowning. There was something in the wind. When the Inspector became benevolent during the progress of an investigation, there was something decidedly in the wind. “I’ve found the will, all right. Short and sweet. By your husband’s will, Mrs. Xavier, I find that you’re practically his sole beneficiary. Did you know that?” He waved the document.
“Of course.”
“Yes,” continued the Inspector briskly, “except for a small bequest to his brother Mark and a few to various professional societies — research organizations and such — you inherit the bulk of his estate. And, as you said, Xavier, it’s considerable.”
“Yes,” muttered Xavier.
“I see too that there won’t be any trouble about probating the will and settling the estate,” murmured the old gentleman. “No chance for a legal contest; eh, Xavier?”
“Of course not! There’s no one to contest. I certainly shan’t, even if I had grounds — which I haven’t — and I’m John’s only blood relative. As a matter of fact, although it isn’t pertinent, my sister-in-law has no living relatives, either. We’re the last on both sides.”
“That makes it very cozy, I must say,” smiled the Inspector. “By the way, Mrs. Xavier, I suppose you and your husband had no real differences? I mean — you didn’t quarrel about the various things that split up late marriages?”
“Please.” She put her hand to her eyes. And that’s very cozy, too, thought Ellery grimly. He kept watching his father, alive in every nerve now.
Unexpectedly the man Bones rasped: “That’s a lie. She made his life one long hell!”
“Bones,” gasped Mrs. Xavier.
“She was always nagging him,” went on Bones, the cords of his throat taut; his eyes were blazing again. “She never gave him a minute’s peace, damn her!”
“That’s interesting,” said the Inspector, still smiling, “and you’re an interesting sort of coot to have around the house, Bones, old boy. Go on. I take it you were pretty fond of Dr. Xavier?”
“I’d have died for him.” His bony fists tightened. “He was the only one in this rotten world ever lent a hand when I was down, the only one ever treated me like a man, not some — some scum... She treated me like dirt!” His voice rose to a scream. “I tell you she—”
“Right, right, Bones,” said the Inspector with a touch of sharpness. “Hold it. Now listen to me, all of you. We found in Dr. Xavier’s dead hand a torn half of playing card. He’d evidently found strength enough before he died to leave a clue to his murderer’s identity. He tore off half a six of spades.”
“Six of spades!” panted Mrs. Xavier; her eyes were protruding from their shadowed sockets.
“Yes, Madam, a six of spades,” said the Inspector, regarding her with some satisfaction. “Let’s do a little figuring. What could he have meant to tell us? Well, the cards came from his own desk; so it isn’t a question of ownership. Now, he didn’t use a whole card; only a half. That means the card as a card wasn’t the important thing; it was the piece, or what was on the piece.”
Ellery stared. There was something in association, after all. You could teach an old dog new tricks. He chuckled silently.
“On the piece,” continued the Inspector, “was the number 6, in the border of the card, and a few — what d’ye call it?”
“Pips,” said Ellery.
“Pips — spades. Spades mean anything to any of you?”
“Spade?” Bones licked his lips. “I use a spade—”
“Whoa,” grinned the Inspector. “Don’t let’s get into fairy tales. That would be too much. No, he didn’t mean you, Bones.”
“Spade,” said Ellery briefly, “if it meant anything at all, which I doubt, signified death. It always has, you know.” His eyes were narrowed and he was paying attention only to his father.
“Well, whatever it meant it’s not the main thing. The main thing is the number 6. Number 6 mean anything to any of you?”
They stared at him.
“Evidently not,” he chuckled. “Well, I didn’t think it would. As a number I don’t see how it could refer to anyone here. Might in one of these, now, detective stories with secret societies and such tripe; but not in real life. Well, if 6 as a number doesn’t mean anything to you, how about 6 as a word?” He stopped grinning and his face hardened. “Mrs. Xavier, you have a middle name, haven’t you?”
Her hand was at her mouth. “Yes,” she said faintly. “Isère. My maiden name. I am French...”
“Sarah Isère Xavier,” said the Inspector grimly. He whipped his hand into his pocket and produced with flourish a small sheet of delicately tinted personal stationery, monogrammed at the top with three capital letters. “I found this piece of writing paper in your desk in the big bedroom upstairs, Mrs. Xavier. Do you admit it’s yours?”
She was on her feet, swaying. “Yes. Yes. But—”
He held the paper high, so that all their wide eyes could see it. The monogram read: S I X. The Inspector dropped the sheet and stepped forward. “Dr. Xavier in his fast living moment accused S I X of murdering him. I saw the light when I remembered that two of your initials were S X. Mrs. Xavier, consider yourself under arrest for the murder of your husband!”
For one horrible moment Francis’s merry laugh rang faintly in their ears from the kitchen. Mrs. Carreau was white as death, her right hand on her breast. Ann Forrest was trembling. Dr. Holmes was blinking at the tall woman swaying before them with disbelief, nausea, mounting rage. Mark Xavier was rigid in his chair, only the muscles of his jaw working. Bones stood like a mythological figure of vengeance, glaring with awful triumph at Mrs. Xavier.
The Inspector snapped: “You knew that on the death of your husband you would come into a pot of money, didn’t you?”
She took a small backward step, breathing thickly. “Yes—”
“You were jealous of Mrs. Carreau, weren’t you? Insanely jealous? You couldn’t stand seeing them together conducting what you thought was an affair right before your nose, could you? — when all the time they were just discussing Mrs. Carreau’s sons!” He advanced steadily, never taking his hard eyes from hers, a little gray nemesis.
“Yes, yes,” she gasped, retreating another step.
“When you followed Mrs. Carreau downstairs last night and saw her slip into your husband’s study and after a while slip out again, you were mad with jealous rage, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“You went in, snatched the revolver from the drawer, shot him, killed him, murdered him; didn’t you, Mrs. Xavier? Didn’t you?”
The edge of the chair stopped her. She tottered and fell into the seat with a thud. Her mouth was working soundlessly, like the mouth of a fish seen through the glass window of an aquarium.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”